Conquest
by M.Avercroft
Summary: Spain's outward facade has crumbled while he muses on his past. Upon realizing Canada's similarity to America, he is spurned, angered. He had and lost America. Canada, well, he never even had a chance...or does he?  Canada/Spain. Lil on the dark side.


**Conquest**

The colorful nation that was Spain had his usual happy-go-lucky face on. As always. His lips carved into a permanent, optimisitic smile, his eyes alight as they danced over each speaker in the meeting.

He was reclined against his seat, but his posture was sturdy, unshakeable while the heels of his boots rested on the edge of the conference table, delicately, with class, unlike Prussia's garish scene from across the room.

Green eyes narrowed for a moment, unnoticed, while the cogs in the nation's mind ground harshly, painfully against one another. Somewhere it seemed, a gear just kept slipping.

He watched as Prussia and Germany were torn apart by the aftermath of their failed conquest. The World Summit this week concerned just what the consequences would be for these poor losers and those who had joined their petty attempt. As though they had ever known anything about conquest.

"Barbarians," he muttered sharply, uncertain whether his thought was voiced or remained in the complexities of his mind. Germanic people, those backwater tribes pretending they knew something about war with their crude weaponry and even cruder language. Really, most of mainland Europe followed suit. Civilized. Ha. Now that's a sacriligious thought.

No, they dwelt in the mud while he built palaces. Their "conquests," their "crusades" consisted of childlike bickering amongst themselves. Giving and taking land in an endless game of tug of war. Never keeping, never truly taking. Most of them had never even heard of the new world, no, they scarcely believed it.

His gold had proved those imbeciles so very, very wrong.

America perked up, glancing at Spain from the head of the room, altogether too optimistic.

"What was that Spain?"

As the world turned to him, he looked wide-eyed and feigned surprise. Though really the urge to vomit was so much more appealing. Oh imagine that, the bastard takes notice to him. His face shifted from polite shock to smiling pleasantly, as he often did. He noted, "I just said we have to consider how difficult of a time these nations have and will continue to go through to recover."

As though they knew anything about pain.

Some countries nodded in approval, while others grumbled with thoughts of vengeance more clearly on their minds. In that matter, they certainly weren't alone.

Pain? The nation laughed to himself. In the midst of more important wars, he was neglected, left alone to fall apart to the influence of mainland politics.

Civil war? More than of few of the gathered nations had experienced it, but few were so unprepared.

The founder of the new world, the gateway to intercontinental trade, the reaper of native peoples, he who brought Montezuma to his knees, the importer of every one of the world's first luxuries…

His palaces burnt to the ground, his daughters abused by English and French royalty, his religion, blasphemed and crippled,

And at last, long after the first conqueror was obliterated by his rival to the North,

Civil War began.

His people destroyed him, as the last vestiges of stability crumbled beside Madrid's walls.

Spain fractured, no, shattered almost perfectly in two, leaving behind a defeated, tomato-loving peasant, with a bitter killer lingering just below the reformed façade.

He watched amused, as the leading nations tore apart and pieced together Europe once again. In his mind, he laughed, having watched the scene so very, very many times. And yet, it never got old.

His time would come again. If nothing else, he knew of this. Thier weakness and self-absorbance assured him of that.

The boardroom door cracked open slightly, with merely a quiet creak and space enough for Canada to slip through, unnoticed by most as usual.

Spain watched the blond nation enter, loosing interest in another one of England's self-satisfying tirades.

Canada looked about the room noticing the considerable tension and array of bad moods that filled it. Seeing a smile on Spain's face was reassuring and he made his way to stand beside the nation.

"It's nice to see someone smiling," he remarked, surprised to not see the older nation jump in surprise as most did when he spoke to them.

"Yes…" Spain looked up at Canada, his head cocked slightly to the side, his eyes coldly calculating the shy man in front of him.

"But I guess, when you're not really involved it makes things a lot easier right? There's never really anything for me to say since I don't matter anyway, so I can sort of just be here!" Canada smiled, violet eyes twinkling, seeming to have gotten used to his plight.

"I suppose…." Spain responded, eyes casting downwards in thought.

Canada shrugged and made his way out of the other side of the boardroom, thinking that perhaps he would find the kitchen and make himself something to eat. No one would mind anyway.

Spain heard the door click softly as Canada left, he remained focused, staring deeply into the wood grain. His hand suddenly clenched into a first, his nails digging into the skin, drawing tiny drops of blood. Beneath the sallow green of his eyes, there was rage. It was red and violent, more so than any flag the bullfighters waved, to ellicit the carnage.

**Canada…had looked so very much like America.**

And America, just the thought, made Spain's insides seethe; boiling, and churning bodily against himself. His mouth had gone dry, the feel of itchy cotton, snaking its way down his throat, choking at his voice, his heart, his everything.

America, incited something heated in him between violence and lust, but an insatiable kind, never quenched thanks to the course of history.

Oh yes, he had had America. He found America, he owned him, and possessing him fiercely, the profit was his alone. He built the foundation, the steps, the path for any other nation to come and reap glory from it's fine shores.

And yet, his founding father, oh no, it was not Spain. It was England.

That grueling dog who had so meekly, hesitantly followed in Spain's footsteps only to undo every feat of prowess Spain have ever accomplished. He was evicted from his own, his America. There was war. Oh yes.

And there was blood.

But America was torn from Spain, a piece of him that it seemed he would never, ever, be able to reconstitute.

Canada on the other hand, he had never…

His mind suddenly went silent, a gear clicking into place, the whole machine having stilled. He stared as though possessed, his eyes darkening subtly as a small smile danced venomously on his lips.

He had never even had a chance…

The door open and closed with another click, left unnoticed by the bickering room of nations…

* * *

><p>Canada hummed to himself as he always did, since there was no one to talk to, as he trotted down the hall from the boardroom into a small kitchen with a table that would suit him just fine.<p>

The blond removed his backpack and placed it on a chair, setting his bear gently on top of it. This way, the plush almost seemed like it was sitting there, like a friend. That thing Canada didn't have.

Canada smiled, as he always did, having trained him self to not consider the deeply disturbing connotation of these and other small actions. He instead, pulled a bowl from a cabinet and set it aside.

What else would he do after all? It wasn't as though anyone noticed the frail nation or remotely listened to anything he had to say.

His brother, his loud, obnoxious, often unintelligent brother somehow stole the spotlight.

Matthew opened the refrigerator, and grabbed an egg. He corrected himself.

Well, actually, America stole everything.

Attention.

Commerce.

**Family.**

The Canadian gasped as he heard a sudden crack, feeling the shell give, and looked down at his right hand, feeling the slimy drippings of raw egg gliding down his fingers.

The shell slipped to the floor, but the nation stood still, violet eyes examining his own hand, fascinated and disgusted.

England was just as much his father as he was America's. And yet Canada had all but been abandoned in terms of partnership and communication. To favor the better son, the one with the better innovations, the leading economy.

Oh yeah, Dad, that's going to crash again and again, but you are both too stupid to see it.

Even France, his other, kinder parent, had been whisked away by America's flash and colored lights.

That damn statue made him sick. It's monumental scale, its love made him fiercely jealous.

The nation sighed shaking his head and returning to his usual blank smile.

Well, no point getting caught up in unchangeable things.

He turned, only to be crushed against the counter by something else, his eyes flying open in shock.

He had been so absorbed in his thoughts he had failed to notice the other nation enter the room. And Spain, as far as he could tell, though it didn't feel like Spain, had bodily forced him back against the sharp edge of the counter, the flat plane digging painfully into his lower back. The older nation had him pinned, one frail arm had been seized and held behind his back, the other, still messy from his little outburst, was held by the wrist to his side.

Spain, hovering over him, had said nothing, breathing in staggered gasps, while his eyes seemed to digest the sight before him. The character of the man's expression was making Canada squirm in nervousness.

"Umm….Sp…Sspain?" Canada finally garnered the courage to mutter, trembling underneath the other man's intense gaze.

"Yes?" Spain's head tilted to the side, as though to gauge things from another angle, brown locks rustling slightly with something calculating in his eyes.

Canada was colder than America. There was something he liked about that.

"WHAT? Umm… what are y..y..you doing?" Canada's eyes were still wide. This was not like Spain, what had gotten into him? He was always so…happy. I mean, he, well he was Spain! He wasn't this...

Spain's fingers dug into the other's soft flesh, causing Canada to wince underneath him.

"I've never gotten a chance…" each word from the Spaniard's mouth was bitter and stagnant, and each word seemed to hang in the air before disappearing.

Canada shook his head, he didn't understand. And he was starting to become frightened. More than that, terrified. This was **not** normal and Spain was half-smiling, half-grimacing at him.

"You know…" Spain trailed off, releasing for a moment the arm behind Canada's back to trail his fingers under the younger nation's chin. "You look very much like America…."

Maybe he didn't mean it, but it was reflex as Canada twitched violently at the accusation, one he had heard a few too many times. Hell, they usually just thought he was his brother...

"I do not!" he growled, pushing forward against Spain, raking against the elder's neck with the nails of his free hand.

Spain's amused expression disappeared as he forcefully regained hold of the other nation, pulling him briefly against himself before smashing that frail body back against the counter.

The impact shook Canada, his still had been unsure of what to expect, while his glasses became dislodged, falling off his face with a small metallic chink as they hit the tile floor.

The frame and contained glass crunched underneath Spain's boot and Canada flinched, anger beginning to fill his violet eyes.

"I was going to say…" the elder continued, "but you are **nothing **alike. You are so much…." He paused taking a breath, "**Colder." **

The Spaniard spoke in a way that was heady and erotic, but the Canadian had little time to ponder as the other locked his eyes with his own. Canada didn't know what he looked like, but he was certain of the violence he felt towards his oppressor at this exact moment. Oppression...it wasn't something Canada was fond of.

Spain chuckled darkly, "There's madness in those eyes, Matthew."

The Candian balked, what gave this bastard the right…

Spain grinned, pulling Matthew's wrist close to his face. "Not that I'm complaining…"

In some sick parody of the knight taking the maiden's hand for a kiss, Matthew couldn't help but feel ill as Spain's tongue glided over the raw egg that coated his hand.

"I know the trouble that Alfred causes you…"

"I don't know what you are talking about,' Canada snapped back, eyes alight. "He's my brother, you son of a bitch!"

"True… but he is destroying you…" Antonio was enjoying this toying dialogue, and oh, how the other man was so defensive of those who abused him.

Canada spat at him. "No worse than he destroyed you." He laughed, braver than he thought he was. "Should have stuck to the south, you might have actually survived."

Spain's eyes narrowed, his face suddenly closer to the other nation's, "or hide away in the north like you? Stay quiet, let my self be a pawn to rest of the world? I think not..."

Canada sighed and looked aside, not willing to continue watching this, or playing whatever game Spain was so insistent upon.

"I suppose it wasn't all your choice. Arthur was certainly content leaving you in that bitter region to fend for yourself in the cold..."

Matthew tensed. A string of pain pulled at his heart. This wasn't fair.

Spain sighed, breathing out deeply and releasing some of the tension in his limbs. "At least you kept most of your land I suppose, but he destroyed, no, leveled the rising power in Europe, why wouldn't he pick on you?"

Something about the voice of the other sounded less sadistic, more genuine, making Matthew pause. He bit his lip.

"I don't know," he responded as well as he could, finding the courage to look up once again, to find Spain hanging his head limply despite his grasp on Matthew's arms. The Canadian's eyes took notice to something hard in the profile of the Spaniard, something of defeat having etched itself into his face.

When Spain looked up, Canada wasn't ready for it. Violet met rusty green for the second time. Canada stared into eyes that all too well described a nation with a violent rift in its history. One eye was tired, worn, while the other was alight, damaged, thirsting for some kind of vengeance. Both, screamed of desperation in a way that hurt to look at.

Their eyes lingered together for a moment, before Spain broke the gaze off, casting his eyes down, reminiscing, as his grip on the other nation loosened, before slipping entirely.

Canada's eyes widened as the other man's arms fell to his sides.

He should have ran. God, he should have ran. He should have called for help rather than stand blankly in a small room with the other mad nation, a space that had already proven more dangerous than he could have ever imagined.

He certainly didn't know why his body would freeze, locking itself up angrily, feeling so much more tense than before as he grit his teeth to mutter "Antonio," with more venom than the boy had ever mustered in his life.

The other nation looked up, uncertain for the first time in minutes.

He was knocked back against the table as the young nation propelled himself onto him, furiously, as though lashing against the lack of contact.

Matthew didn't know why he did it, as he crashed himself into Spain, closing the gap between them and forcing his mouth against the unexpecting other's.

Antonio's eyes widened, and then closed as he sighed into the other briefly, having forgotten what something so simple had felt like.

And then all at once, there was electricity on thier lips, his eyes burst open locking with the violet ones before him, something sparking there, catching aflame as Spain's hands came to tear at the younger nation's hair pulling his blonde locks fiercely as he attacked the yielding mouth before him.

Matthew's small whimper of suprise was muffled by the gap between them closing again, the other having entagled the boy's hair between his fingers, pulling him towards him demandingly.

The blonde was too flustered and without energy to protest, though coming to the conclusion that protesting was the last thing he wanted to do. If he had been thinking at all.

Antonio pulled away suddenly, causing Canada gasp and stumble slightly onto him, as the older nation regarded his prize curiously, a dark eyebrow raised.

Those violet eyes were somewhere between desperate and afraid, pale skin flushed maddeningly at the checks, bottom lip already reddened and swollen from his ministrations. This pleased Antonio, though confusion still lingered behind his growing lust.

"Why?..." came slowly from his lips, rasping as he continued to eye the other nation.

Canada looked up at the other man, his frame trembling, coming to realize under the pressure of those violent green eyes, that he had no idea what he was doing.

He hardly wanted to consider. Did it matter?

The smaller nation crushed himself against the other's chest in response, burying his face into the wrinkles of pale fabric, while his arms clawed around the others back, tugging at his coat, fists clenched in the material.

Spain was taken aback by the other's embrace, suprised once again for the first time in so long until a pair of sharp, violet eyes gazed up at him.

Demanding.

Actually demanding. Defensively. Accusatory.

Why the fuck did he need a reason?

Beneath that, something pleading wavered below the surface as Matthew stood on his toes, bring his mouth near the others ear.

"P...please?" his voiced had cracked, embarassing him further as he continued to cling weakly to the other.

Antonio's breath caught in his throat. As though the other nation knew just how appealing the act of begging was to his elder.

Reasons? Reasons could go to hell.

Spain grasped the other nation, encircling his smaller shoulders, claiming the mouth that had so shyly spoken.

Matthew whimpered, flushed, as the other resumed the dominance he so evidently craved, biting not so gently at his lips while his fingers raked down the Candian's back.

The blonde's breath hitched in his throat as he was pushed forcefully back against the counter while the other's body ground against his own, reminiscent of minutes earlier.

He scarcely felt the counter digging into his back in a familar niche, the electricity from the Spaniard all but blocking anything else.

Matthew moaned aloud as a tongue escaped from his eager mouth to move to his neck, where each breathe lay hot and thick as Antonio bit and caressed his way from the Canadian's ear to subtle indents at the base of his shoulder.

It felt wonderful, though something, just...

The younger nation sighed, "This is madness...you know?" Causing the other to stop solidly in his tracks, straightening himself against the Canadian, eyes flashing in contempt.

"No." he responded sharply. No he didn't know, taking a handful of Matthew's collar in his hand and yanking the suprised Canadian out of his musings to all but throw him forward onto the tile.

The blond had been unprepared for the violence, his arm had extended to try to maintain balance, but instead came to swipe the bowl on the counter with a resounded crash on the other side of the table as his torso connected with the cold tile, elbows hitting first.

He had grunted at the impact, curling himself together as to somehow negate the painful ache, before looking up.

Spain had yet to move, merely regarding him as though he was a dog on the floor.

His eyes narrowed, he didn't take kindly to the thought, rising only slightly as he moved toward the other without pause. Grasping the bottom edge of Spain's shirt with two full hands, he yanked without concern, bringing the the other man down to his side, with a thunk as the brunette's head connected to the hard floor.

Antonio had been taking off his feet with quite an impressive turn of events, as his head snapped back against the tile, pain resounding dully, but in way somehow satisfying.

He grunted as slight weight was put upon him and his breathing tightened.

The younger nation had straddled him, his hands gripping the fabric just at Spain's neck, pulling enough to make it hard to breathe.

Spain observed wet lines running down the other's cheeks, as he gazed into those eyes that were hurt and broken, not altogether unlike himself.

They gazed at each other, as though simultaneously wondering, is this what it would be like?

Playing out every bit of misery, every injustice?

Antonio reached a hand upward, brushing away Matthew's hair from his eyes, to carefully rub away at the damp trail he found there, leatting his hand rest on the counter of the other's face.

The Canadian raised a hand quizically, laying it overtop the other's just against his cheek, holding it for several moments.

He nodded slowly, unsure of why, leaning down over the older nation to softly kiss his tan forehead.

Spain breathed out slowly, it was a good moment. His leg hooked suddenly under the other's as he grabbed the other nation by the shoulders and roughly flipped him, his leg pinning across Canada's.

Green eyes flashed, returning the gesture softly, on Matthew's forehead.

The Canadian may have tried to speak but he scarcely had a chance as the other crashed onto him, devouring him, beginning to tear not just at his hair once again, but at the clothing that seperated thier warm, wanting skin.

Yes, it would be like this.

They winced and murmered softly at each other's inflictions, again and again without pause.

Matthew cried out softly, pleadingly. He wouldn't, he simply wouldn't be alone.

They raked the flesh of each other's back, leaving coarse lines that would refuse to fade. Thin red battle scars that had been awaited for far too long.

The tabletop splintered under desperately grasping hands as Antonio prayed aloud for the first time in years.

A glass bowl lay shattered, ceramic pieces, sharp and scattered on the floor, not far from a tangle of limbs, who panted, trying to regain their ragged breath against the cool surface.

For days after, Matthew would dream heatedly of blood.

Antonio would dream sweetly for days, of nothing.

* * *

><p>In a poorly lit room, where only one window frames the sun, light shines down and casts itself over a small games table. On it, an ornately carved chess boards rests, each of it's pieces standing silently in their respective square, saluting thier king without fail.<p>

Near them, sit two figures, one, a proud conquistador. He is weathered, but something in his rugged face and easy smile suggests a commitment to hope, to the everlasting nature of conquest. On his lap, sits a slender blonde man, giggling softly as he lays his head against the crook of the other's neck.

Their eyes are alight and their hands are intertwined. One atop the other, they reach to the board in front them, using only the tips of their fingers to flick the piece of the dark king. The crowned figure falls to it's side with little noise, rolling to the edge and off the table to fall to the floor below with a satisfying chink.

A laugh passes between them again as they rest against each other, implying some kind of peace, before they burst into uncontrolled laughter. Caught in perpetual madness, as lovers are, they fail to contain themselves.

Across the table, in the opponent's seat, is an empty chair.

* * *

><p><em>~So this was really difficult for me. I am a diehard for prussiacanada. I love it, I love them, I love what the pairing does to their characters, how they seem to bring out these dynamic qualities, good ones, in each other. So in turn I found myself wondering what would it take to bring out the opposite…to find darkness in otherwise happy personas and this happened. It somehow makes me sad. (and slightly scared...but that could just be the violence) As of now this is a one shot, though the pairing intrigues me. There may be something else in the future. Let me know what you think?~_


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